


Thorns are Shaper than They Look

by allie3671



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: But they're courts, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, mafia?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29008395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allie3671/pseuds/allie3671
Summary: Feyre was just working one of her many jobs when a member of the Spring Court walked into her restaurant. Now with the murder of a random member on her hands, she finds herself in a life she never wanted to be a part of. Focused on keeping her family safe and away, she does what needs to be done to keep her promise.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Tamlin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Thorns are Shaper than They Look

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of a fic that I started last year, I thought that I should give it another chance. I hope you guys enjoy it!

1: A Forced Choice

Nothing surprised Feyre anymore, not since she’d been the only one providing for her family. Dropping out of school and working three jobs for the past five years had really done its toll on her. She knew her father and two sisters were sitting at home, lounging about. Worried more about the amount of money that would be in their pockets at the end of the week rather than her. Feyre blamed this on her father, for the most part, falling off the wagon when his wife died and dwindling the family fortune down to nothing in mere months.

The empty dining area had her hunched over; the pain in her back and feet told her she had been standing for too long. Her eyes wandered to the register, its clock blinks _5:00 pm_ and she almost sagged in disappointment. Three hours stood between her and the sweet relief of the walk home, but time was lagging, and she could only hope the dinner rush was late tonight.

The bell above the door jingled, and her back straightened as a single male walked through the door. He was large, filling the doorway, and Feyre couldn’t help but wonder if it was natural for someone to be so _big_.

“I’ll be with you in just a minute. But you can sit anywhere you’d like,” she said from her spot at the counter, feeling beneath it for a menu. His head bobbed in acknowledgment, and he sat at the table closest to the door, his back to her. She studied him as she navigated her way through the closely packed tables, eyes doing a quick once-over. Her breath hitched when she saw the only distinct feature on him. The image of a dark rose was inked into the skin of his neck, its vines wrapping their way around his throat and disappearing into the collar of his shirt. Her heartbeat loudly in her chest, and blood was roaring in her ears.

“Here you are,” her voice sounded strained, and sweat began to prickle at her brow. “Do you want anything to drink?”

She knew it wasn’t entirely fear she was feeling. The man posed no threat to her; unless her father had another gambling debt, she didn’t know about. It was anxiety flowing freely through her, making her knees feel weak. A Spring Court bastard was sitting in her lobby, and if she wanted to end up dead, keeping her head cool would do her more than one favor. Anger sparked low in her stomach as she stared at him.

“Just a water,” he said, not sparing her a glance. She felt her throat tighten as she walked back behind the counter, her eyes never leaving his figure. His shoulders were tense, and when she returned with the glass of water, the hand that had been resting on his lap twitched up toward his hip. _This is dangerous_.

“Are you ready to order?” she asked, pen and paper in hand. He ignored her question, his attention on the view of the street. Her hand tightened on the pen, knuckles white. “Sir?”

He jolted out of his seat and made it for the door; she tracked his movement and noticed the sleek car pulling up in front of the store across the street. A single figure had stepped out of the car, and she watched the tattooed man stalk toward him, steps deliberate as he marched across the street. His right hand pulled something the waistband of his jeans as he reached the middle of the road. Feyre found herself racing after him, pushing the restaurants' door open, yelling at the man in a warning.

“Hey! Watch out!” the man with the gun paused, turning back toward her. His face twisted at first in surprise at her outburst before turning into an ugly sneer. He turned back toward the man and fired; the sound ricocheted off the buildings and left her ears ringing.

She had never seen a dead body before, hadn’t had the chance when her mother died, and she never wanted to. Never seeing anyone murdered before was an add-on; it was something she never wanted to witness again. Feyre watched in horror as that figure fell and hit the sidewalk with a dull thud. She didn’t even have time to react before she saw the Spring Court thug turn back toward her, gun leveled at her head.

It was like time had stopped; the pair stared at each other. Confusion and fear clouded her judgment as he tossed the gun toward her. It clanged sharply against the asphalt; she was afraid that it would fire a second time as it bounced once. They never broke eye-contact, his brow twitched, and she saw the strain in his neck.

A choice, he was giving her a choice. Take the gun, shoot him and run. But was she capable of doing that to another human being? _He’s a killer anyway; you’d be doing everyone a favor_. She could deal with the repercussions later. Feyre looked down at the gun, inches away from the tip of her boot. Movement from the man had her looking up; he had taken a step toward her. _Run,_ she screamed at herself, _call the police and save yourself_.

The man had an obvious death wish; growing impatient with Feyre’s hesitation, he lurched forward. It was a quick movement, and time seemed to flow easily again. She fumbled for the gun, fingers shaking as they curled around the trigger. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him as he fell to the ground; the sound didn’t register as she felt her stomach twist.

His eyes were still open, staring blankly at the gray sky. The gun was a cold thing in her hand, it felt heavy, and she was tempted to drop it next to his body. But she knew she couldn’t leave it there; bile rose in her throat. She backed away from the body, never turning away until her back slammed into the door of the restaurant. Peering inside and not seeing any of the cooks popping their heads out from the back, she stuffed the gun into her apron.

Taking a deep breath, she screamed bloody murder.

She was still shaking when she got home. Barely avoided questioning because the tattoo on the man’s neck told them all they needed to know.

“Gang violence” was the reason they gave her before sending her on her way with the crinkly shock blanket. They hadn’t questioned her about the missing gun, and she hoped they never linked it back to her. She had ditched the blanket before entering her apartment building, not that her family would ask her any questions. It would only save her from a nasty look from Nesta, who never missed a single detail about her younger sister. The gun was still nestled against her hip, a heavy weight reminding her of her crime as she had climbed the stairs to the third floor. The water damaged front door greeted her; the handle hung limply from its place, something she would have to get fixed with her next paycheck.

Not that it would do much good against someone who wanted to get inside.

She shoved the door open, creaking as it revealed the dismal apartment. The light overhead flickered as she stepped into the entrance hall; the TV in the small living room was low enough that she could hear her father rocking in his chair. Probably whittling away at a chunk of wood from the garbage.

“Did you bring home any groceries?” Elain asked from the kitchen, seated near the old refrigerator.

“I didn’t get paid, so no,” Feyre replied. Her feet felt sluggish as she heaved herself toward their shared bedroom.

“But you got tips,” Nesta said, her eyes pointedly staring at the frayed purse in Feyre’s grasp. Something like irritation clawed its way through her body as she took in her two sisters. Both wrapped in light sweaters, looking as if though they had wandered into the wrong house. Too prim, too proper. Neither of them wanted to work; Nesta was too angry with their father to give him the satisfaction of seeing her work. It was inevitable that she kept Elain from working, the two always in the kitchen waiting to pounce on Feyre. As if they could sniff out the smallest bit of coin.

“We need food and to pay rent, Nesta,” Feyre ground out. “We don’t have the funds to be buying anything else,” it was an argument they’d had one too many times. The sound of the rocking chair ceased as Nesta stood from her spot at the table.

“I know that you already paid this months’ rent,” she said as she trailed a finger along the table.   
“We don’t need a lot of food, but Elain and I need new shoes. The weather is getting colder, and we don’t have anything thick enough.”

From her spot in the kitchens’ doorway, she could see the shoe rack placed just beside the front door. Feyre’s black shoes were falling apart, and a little bit of the sole could be seen falling away from under one of the shoes. She thought back to the month prior when Nesta had used the same argument. Her nostrils flared, knowing she couldn’t retaliate without getting another noise complaint from the neighbors.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” she relented and gestured toward the stove. “Can you make dinner tonight? I don’t have the energy, and it’s been three weeks since you’ve actually done anything.”

Nesta ignored her, but Elain gave her a small nod as Feyre moved away from the kitchen. Her legs were beginning to tremble the closer she got to her room. A cold sweat began on the nape of her neck; the gun was an unbearable weight now. It was grossly warm as she pulled it from under her shirt and chucked it, along with her purse, into her designated drawer of the shared dresser. The small paintings she had made on the knobs mockingly stared back at her as she shut the drawer.

Tears had welled, threatening to fall as she dry heaved. Grasping her pillow from the bed and collapsing to the floor, shoving her face into the soft material and she cried. She breathed heavily, trying to calm herself. She _killed_ someone and played it off in front of her family. She released the pillow and threaded her fingers into her hair, gripping it painfully. She felt dirty; self-defense or no, it was murder.

Standing from her position on the floor, she shakily pulled the hem of her shirt away from her body and over her head. She was reaching for her jeans' button when she heard a crash from outside the door following were her sisters screaming. For the second time that day, anxiety worked its way through her, and she felt the violent need to vomit. She focused on the dresser and what inevitably would be the reason for her and her family’s death.

“Which one of you fuckers killed Andras?” a voice roared over the blood pumping in her ears.


End file.
